


that i'm still the one you want

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Big Time Adolescence (2020)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, First Kisses, Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, Soulmarks, Soulmates, Unrequited Love, friends to boyfriends, semi canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23792656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: Mo's wanted Zeke to be his soulmate for as long as he can remember. The reality is a lot more complicated than he expected.
Relationships: Monroe "Mo" Harris/Zeke Presanti
Comments: 10
Kudos: 44





	that i'm still the one you want

**Author's Note:**

> SOULMATE AU! 
> 
> i had the thought of "omg what if mo's soulmark was where the canon tongue daddy tattoo is and his dad wigs out" and then this was born. it's not exactly what i wanted and i'm not in love with it, but it's as good as it's gonna get lmao
> 
> i didn't tag underage but mo is technically 16 thru all of this including some light kissing. 
> 
> big thanks to hannah for beta'ing!

Mo’s awake when his chest starts to burn. He’s lying on his side, eyes fixed on his alarm clock, as the clock ticks over from  _ 11:59 _ to  _ 12:00 _ . He’s officially sixteen and his chest aches for a split second before it fades. He brings his hand to his chest—his left pectoral, specifically—and just rests his hand over his heart for a moment. He’ll need to strip off his shirt to see the name written on his skin. 

Mo sighs. “You can do this,” he whispers to himself. He rubs the skin gently, as if it might start to ache again. “You can do this.” He sits up slowly and finally pulls his hand away from his chest to reach for his phone instead. He turns on his front-facing camera and slowly lifts up his t-shirt. 

He gulps one last time before aiming his camera at his chest, shirt pulled up to his chin. The image is mirrored because of the camera, but he can still read the name on his chest easily. His skin doesn’t look all that different, aside from the stark, clean writing that says _Isaac Presanti_. Mo drops his phone and falls back onto his bed with a groan.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Mo hisses. He rubs his hand over his face and tries to level out his breathing. “Fuck,” he says again, a little louder, just to get some of the panic off his chest. 

Of course, that’s when his phone buzzes. He sits up again and unlocks the screen to reveal a text from none other than Zeke.

_ happy birthday momo. 16 dude!!!! ill buy u a beer next time i see u _

Mo drops his phone into his lap and hides his face in his hands again. “Shit,” he hisses. “Shit, fuck, god _dammit_.” 

His phone buzzes again. 

_ did u get a name? _

Mo silences his phone and tosses it onto his bedside table. He crawls back under the covers and closes his eyes. He can’t ever tell Zeke that it’s his name on his skin—even if he really wants to, even if he’s been _hoping_ Zeke would be his soulmate since he was thirteen years old. Zeke can’t ever find out, because it’s pretty obvious that Mo isn’t _Zeke’s_ soulmate, otherwise...otherwise he would’ve said something. 

Mo squeezes his eyes shut tighter as if he can block out the upsetting thought. Eventually, he drifts off to a restless sleep. 

* * *

Mo manages to keep it a secret, somehow. He tells Zeke he doesn’t recognize the name and that Zeke wouldn’t know it either. He tells his parents he doesn’t recognize the name and when they ask to see, he tells them his soulmark is somewhere embarrassing. That part, at least, isn’t a lie. His parents don’t press but they look at him sometimes, long and hard, and part of him wants to confess but mostly he ignores it. He ignores the name when he showers and he ignores it when he glances at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t change his shirt for gym class and never lets anyone _ever_ see him shirtless. 

* * *

“I think it’s time,” Zeke says with a grin at Nick and Mark. He sticks out his tongue and Nick buzzes the tattoo gun and Mo’s blood runs cold. It’s not that he’s opposed to tattoos—he loves looking at Zeke’s when he can—but he’s not sure he’s ready for one. Especially not one that says _tongue daddy_ , delivered by Nick or Zeke. “C’mon, Mo, shirt off.”

“No,” he says instantly. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Not my chest.” 

“Dude, c’mon,” Zeke sits up and stubs his cigarette out on an overflowing ashtray. 

“No,” Mo says again, “that’s…That’s where my soulmark is,” he admits quietly. It’s not really something they talk about, beyond Zeke’s feeble attempts at finding out what name is on Mo’s skin. Mo’s never talked about it with Nick before, that’s for sure; he’s barely ever talked to Mark at all. “Not on my chest,” he says again.

Zeke stares at him—it reminds Mo uncannily of the way his parents sometimes stare at him. Like they’re trying to figure him out; like he’s a puzzle being pieced together. For a second, Mo thinks Zeke might make him take his shirt off anyway, might take it off _for_ him.

Mo swallows a groan. The last thing he needs right now is a boner. He shuffles from foot to foot and says, “What about my calf? Like yours.” He nods at the small scrawl reading ‘Zeke’ on his leg. 

Zeke purses his lips. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Nick, gimme the gun.”

“Dude, I’m way better at this than you!”

“Fuck off, dude, give me the gun.” Zeke holds out his hand and Nick passes the gun over after a beat of petulant silence. “On the couch, Mo. You don’t gotta take your jeans off.” 

Mo swallows and nods. “Yeah, okay.”

* * *

He’s still stoned as he pulls on his jeans. His dad is speaking behind him, lecturing him still, but it’s barely more than a dull drone in his ears. He buttons and zips his jeans, then turns to say something, anything, to get his dad off his back for a split second. Except he’s shirtless, and the soulmark is inky black on his skin, and he knows his dad sees it the moment Mo faces him. 

“What is that?” His dad asks, cautious. “Is that...your mark?” 

“No, it’s nothing,” Mo lies, heart pounding. 

“Is it a tattoo?” His dad asks. His tone shifts from cautious, maybe curious to annoyed. Almost angry. “Monroe, if that’s not your mark—”

“It’s nothing!” He turns his back to his dad and covers his soulmark with a shaking hand. “It’s nothing, it’s just pen!” 

“No, no, you just got out of the shower. What is that? Let me see— _did you get a tattoo_?” His dad storms over to him and turns Mo with a hand on his shoulder. “Let me see,” he demands. 

“What are you two yelling about?” His mom asks, appearing at the bedroom door. “We can hear you downstairs. 

“Our son has gotten a _tattoo_. Good luck not being buried with the rest of us!” His dad looks a little deranged—like this is the straw that’s finally breaking the camel’s back. 

“It’s not a tattoo!” Mo shouts back as he finally drops his hand so it trembles at his side. He closes his eyes and forces himself not to cry as a hush falls over his parents. He knows the angles of the lettering by heart, not just because he knows Zeke’s handwriting so well. Mo spends hours at night, sometimes, tracing the mark on his skin and thinking about its ridiculous twin that sits high on his ankle. “It’s not a tattoo,” Mo says again, softly. 

“Fuck,” his dad murmurs. Mo opens his eyes to see his dad pacing, hands on his head. 

“Oh, honey.” His mom shuts his bedroom door and walks over to him. “Honey, why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mo says. 

“Monroe,” his mother says sternly, “of course your soulmark matters.” Her hands land on his shoulders before she pulls him into a tight hug. He’s still too high for this, frankly; his head is still fuzzy and every touch on his bare skin feels like jolts of electricity. “Honey,” she says again, sadly. One of her hands strokes through his still-damp hair. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Mo says even as his voice catches in his throat. “I’m not his, you know? So it doesn’t matter. You guys hate him anyway. Everyone hates him. _I_ hate him, sometimes.” He shrugs as best he can in his mom’s hold. 

“You know what Zeke’s soulmark says?” His dad asks. 

“No, but if it was me...he would’ve said something.” Mo finally pushes his mom away and wipes at his eyes. “It’s fine,” he says for the millionth time, “no big deal.”

“Monroe,” his dad starts, but Mo shakes his head.

“Can I just...Can I have a minute? I’ll be down in a few. I’ll behave.” He can’t look at his parents; he can’t bear to see their disappointed faces—or worse, their sympathetic faces. 

“I’m sorry I thought you had a tattoo,” his dad offers. It’d almost be funny, any other time. 

“It’s fine, dad.” Mo keeps his eyes shut a moment longer, until he hears both of his parents slip out of his room. He stumbles over to his bed and falls face first onto the covers. He wants to curl up in a ball until the high fully wears off. He doesn’t want to go downstairs and mingle with his grandparents and sister—his sister, who probably _does_ know what Zeke’s soulmark says. 

Mo’s considered asking her, sometimes. Just to see. He doubts it was Kate’s own name, and he’s sure it’s not Holly’s. Maybe Zeke’s gotten it covered up with another tattoo, because Mo’s never caught a glimpse of it. But Kate knew Zeke before he was completely covered in ink. 

His phone buzzes in the pocket of his jeans, rousing him from his thoughts. It’s a text from his dad, and relief washes over Mo.

_ You don’t have to come downstairs. Sleep it off. Told your grandparents you’re sick.  _

A second message comes in moments later: _I love you, Monroe. We can talk about this tomorrow_. 

Mo locks his phone and drops it beside him on the bed. He wriggles to get more comfortable and lays his head on his pillow. On instinct, he brings his hand to his chest and covers his mark again. His phone buzzes some more, but he’s suddenly too tired to check it so he lets it go.

* * *

“You literally never cared how this was gonna end for me! And I have to fucking move, now! I have to change my fucking name!” Mo digs the heels of his palms into his eyes before raking his hands through his hair. “My fucking parents!” The tears at the corners of his eyes burn, his whole body aches. He sniffles, whimpers, and thuds his head against the wall. 

Zeke’s house smells like pot and beer and it makes Mo’s stomach churn. He jumped off a fucking roof today. The cops are looking for him. His parents probably already know and he’s going to be in _so_ much fucking trouble. He can’t even bear to look at Zeke right now—Zeke, his fucking soulmate, who got him into selling drugs like a fucking loser. 

When Zeke finally speaks, it’s to say, “Don’t beat yourself up over this, it’s not a big deal. You’re sixteen.”

As if Mo doesn’t know. As if his life hasn’t been a whirlwind of disasters since his sixteenth birthday. He barely hears Zeke taunting him for crying but it makes his blood boil nonetheless. He wants to lash out, he wants Zeke to hurt like Mo’s been hurting for months, now. 

“I just don’t wanna end up like you, man.” The words taste bitter and acidic in his mouth the moment they’re out there. He winces but he doesn’t think Zeke notices. When he chances a glance at Zeke, he finds the other man staring back at him, shocked. He looks kind of like Nick looked, after Mo slapped him in the face. 

The urge to apologize is strong, but not strong enough for Mo to actually do it. 

“That’s a bad thing?” Zeke asks.

Mo doesn’t hesitate, the words spilling from his mouth, sharp, “Yeah, it’s a fucking nightmare.” 

“Oh,” Zeke says, nodding, “alright, yeah.” He pauses, then adds, “You’re not gonna end up like me, man. You’re good.” 

“I already am like you! It’s already happened! I sold drugs, Sophie won’t even talk to me, all my friends use me for alcohol and my parents hate me…” He swallows around the lump in his throat. “I hooked up with Holly,” he admits. He’d kept his shirt on the whole time, but the knowing glint in her eye told him he wasn’t really hiding anything. The memory is bittersweet—it had felt good, especially after Sophie’s rejection, but keeping it a secret from Zeke for so long has turned it uncomfortable in his mind.

Zeke looks even more shocked than before. “Like...sex? Oh.” He looks away, back to Mo, away again. “Sick, though! You lost your virginity!” 

“I didn’t want to lose it to Holly,” Mo admits softly. “Like, it wasn’t bad, but…” He shrugs one shoulder. “I wanted to tell you about it so badly,” he adds. “But it was your fucking girlfriend.” 

“Yeah,” Zeke says, an edge of sarcasm in his voice, “yeah, I could imagine how that would be rough.” 

Shame burns in Mo’s gut along with all the panic and adrenaline of tonight. He hugs his stomach for a moment and closes his eyes. He’s sure, now, that this will be the tipping point. This will be the moment when Zeke admits he’s sick of having Mo around, even though that’s ridiculous, because Zeke cheats on his girlfriends all the time and—

“Come over here, bro. Come over here.” Zeke pats the couch beside him. He scoots onto the other cushion. Then, of all things, he says, “I love you, fuckin’ idiot.” 

And there’s just no way Mo can stay away from him any longer. He gets up on shaky legs and watches as Zeke lifts his arm in an invitation, letting Mo crash onto the couch against his side. Zeke’s arm curls over his shoulders and tugs him closer, his hand coming up to ruffle Mo’s hair.

Zeke opens his mouth to say something else, but Mo just can’t keep it in any longer. 

“You’re my soulmate.” He says it softly, but there’s no other sound in the house to bury his words. No party happening, no music playing, no television on. All that follows is Zeke’s sharp inhale. “Right here,” Mo adds as he slaps a hand at his chest. He’d stared at it in the bathroom mirror when he changed out of his wet clothes. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Zeke asks.

“I know I’m not your soulmate,” Mo says, “and I know you’re not gay.”

Zeke’s hand drops from his hair but his arm stays draped over Mo’s shoulders. The touch is warm and comforting, and Mo wants to burrow closer. He wants to turn and hide his face against Zeke’s chest. He never wants to leave this house, even though it’s only a matter of time before the cops show up. 

“Tell the fuckin’ cops that it was me,” Zeke says after a bout of silence. “Just blame it all on me, tell ‘em I sold you the alcohol and drugs and all that nonsense. Whatever, it’s cool.”

Mo’s heart hurts worse than before—that’s it, then. Just brushing over Mo’s little confession. Nothing else to be said for it. “Really?” He asks, pushing the hurt away, “that’s it?” 

“What are they gonna do to me? Look at where I live. What’s the worst that could happen, they take my DMX poster?”

It would be funny. It _should_ be funny. Mo would’ve laughed at it, before. Before he had the cops after him, before he confessed that Zeke is his soulmate only to be _ignored_. 

“Just get outta here before I change my mind.” Zeke elbows him gently.

Mo does want to leave, now. He does want to get out of here. “No,” he says as he rises from the couch. “No, I can’t do it.” 

Maybe it’s because Zeke is his soulmate. Maybe it’s because he’s in love with Zeke, and has been for too damn long. Maybe it’s because he’s finally maturing, or maybe he’s stupider than ever. But letting Zeke take the fall for this isn’t the solution, Mo knows that. Mo did this, Mo fucked up. Mo let himself get roped up in everything with Stacey and Sophie and Zeke, and he has to take responsibility for that.

He tells Zeke as much, and manages not to cry until he’s out of Zeke’s place and walking down the road back home.

* * *

When the principal and the cop fetch him from class the next day, Mo isn’t surprised. He isn’t surprised to see his parents waiting in the office, although the looks of confusion on their face _are_ surprising. He knew the cops hadn’t come knocking but, in all honesty, he thought his parents weren’t lecturing him yet out of some kind of kindness. He follows the principal into the office with his parents at his heels. The office door falls shut and Mo picks at a stray thread on his jeans.

“We’re here because your son has been found to be distributing marijuana and alcohol to his peers.”

“Oh god,” his mom whispers, while his dad just groans. 

“We have been working with the local PD in this matter and it is the recommendation of the police chief that Monroe be suspended, while also entering a drug rehabilitation and education program.”

“I don’t do the drugs, though,” Mo says, inane as he knows the thought to be. 

“It’s standard procedure for underage drug offenses. It’s your first offense, you’re a good kid, the chief sees no reason for the punishment to be much more than community service and a drug rehabilitation program.” 

“Suspended for how long?” His dad asks.

“A month, provided he cooperates with the program and community service. The program lasts six months, after which Monroe will undergo an evaluation to determine if additional assistance is needed.” The principal looks at Mo, then his parents. 

“Just a month…” Mo asks, wincing. “I just, I mean...I expected way worse.” 

The principal actually gives him a slight laugh, but sobers up quickly. “Someone came to the police station today and informed the chief that you were not solely responsible for your actions. That, coupled with your age and the fact this is your first offense, means a month’s suspension is the most appropriate.”

Mo blinks. 

_ Zeke _ . 

_ Zeke turned himself in _ .

“What’s gonna happen to him?” Mo asks, turning to look at the cop in the room with them. “What’s gonna happen to Zeke?”

“That’s not my place to discuss.” 

Mo opens his mouth to protest but his dad speaks over him. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention. Does the suspension start today?” 

“Yes, and Officer Jacob here has information regarding the rehabilitation program.”

The rest of the conversation is kind of a blur: the cop reiterates the six months community service, six months rehab program, weekly drug tests and mandatory education classes that are probably going to bore Mo to tears. But he’s not expelled, he’s not going to jail, and he doesn’t know what’s going to happen to Zeke.

Later, with packets upon packets of information and his backpack weighed down with all the things from his locker, they pack themselves into his dad’s car.

“Monroe,” his dad starts. Mo forces himself to meet his dad’s gaze. His dad sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Mo sighs and sinks back into his seat. 

* * *

Kate’s babysitting him when Mo finally works up the nerve to ask. His parents are out on a date and even though they won’t outright say they don’t trust Mo being left alone, there’s no other reason for Kate to have shown up with enough takeout for two. Mo doesn’t hate it as much as he thought he would—the company is nice, even if Kate shoots him these pitying glances when she thinks he can’t see. 

Kate falls onto the couch with a pint of ice cream in her hand and Mo just says it. “Do you know what Zeke’s soulmark is?”

Kate freezes mid-struggle with the pint’s lid. “What?”

“I know mom and dad told you what my mark says.” He interlocks his fingers in his lap to keep from rubbing instinctively over his mark. “But you—you two slept together. You saw it, didn’t you?” 

“Mo,” Kate starts, but now that Mo’s started talking, he can’t seem to stop.

“He didn’t even acknowledge it when I told him. He just breezed by it. So it must not be me, right? Or did he just never care? Fuck, did he get it covered up?” Mo shakes his head and hides his face in his hands. 

“I never saw it,” Kate says. He hears her set the ice cream and her spoon down, before she places a soothing hand on his back. “He knew he wasn’t my soulmate, so he never showed me his mark. I never looked for it. We just...kind of understood that we weren’t going to be together forever.” 

“He tried so hard to win you back,” Mo says miserably.

“Zeke never liked change. He was just clinging to something familiar.” Kate shakes her head. “I never saw what his mark said, Mo, and I’m sorry he’s yours. You deserve better.”

_ I never wanted better _ , Mo thinks. He lets Kate pull him into a hug.  _I wanted Zeke._

* * *

Mo doesn’t see Zeke for six months.

He finishes his rehab program and his community service and he’s fast coming up on his seventeenth birthday when he stops by Salty Dog on his way home one day. A girl takes his order but it’s Zeke who passes him the food through the tiny little drive-thru window. 

“You wanna come in?” Zeke asks.

Mo says yes. 

It’s awkward at first, sitting down with his to-go bag, crammed into the uncomfortable plastic booth with Zeke sitting across from him. Zeke’s in an ugly, spring green shirt with a yellow cap and a burgundy apron, and a white long-sleeve tee under the shirt to cover his tattoos. Neither of them speaks for a while so, slowly, Mo digs into his food, starting with his already lukewarm fries. 

“I’m sorry,” Zeke says eventually. 

Mo stops with a handful of fries partway to his mouth. “Zeke.”

Zeke raises a hand and then the words start coming at a rapid-fire pace. “I’m so fucking sorry for everything, Mo. For the drugs, the stupid shit, all of it. You left that night and I should’ve fucking stopped you, I should’ve driven you home at the very least cuz, what the fuck, I just let you _walk home_.”

“It was fine,” he says.

“No, it wasn’t.” Zeke stops long enough to drop his face into his hands before continuing. “I went to the station the next morning and told them everything.”

“What...what happened? They wouldn’t tell me.” Mo sets his fries down and wipes his greasy fingertips on his jeans. 

“Decided to go to drug court instead of a trial. Pleaded guilty, and instead of three years in jail I’ve got three years mandated court dates, drug tests, all that shit.” Zeke starts to twiddle his thumbs. He hasn’t looked at Mo in a few minutes, instead keeping his gaze angled down. “Rehab, counseling, that kinda thing.”

“Oh.” A weight Mo’s been trying to ignore has been lifted off his chest. “Oh, god, man, that’s good. I really...I really figured you were in jail.”

“Nah.” Zeke sits back and looks away, scratching awkwardly at his neck. “I...I didn’t know what to say to you. So I just went to my court dates and did my rehab and counseling shit, and, y’know, got a job.”

“Yeah,” Mo says. He’s grinning. “Not exactly drug dealer money, hm?”

Zeke laughs and shakes his head. “No, but it’s better than nothing. I’ve been clean six months, can you believe that? Fucking wild.”

Mo blinks. Somehow, despite Zeke telling him about rehab and counseling and court, in the back of his mind, Mo just assumed Zeke would still be getting high. That’s how Zeke has always been, drinking or smoking or, on rare occasions, snorting. “Oh,” he says, softer. “Holy shit, dude.”

“I know, right?” Zeke laughs again. “Fucking sucks, but, y’know. Better than jail.” 

Mo nods. “Way better.” He finally reaches for his burger and unwraps it slowly. “I totally thought I was gonna go to jail when they called me into the principal’s office.”

“You just got suspended, right? Not expelled?”

Mo chews his burger slowly. “Yeah,” he manages to say around his mouthful, “just suspended, for a month.”

“Good, good. I told them it wasn’t really your fault. I wasn’t sure if they’d really listen.” 

“Thank you,” Mo says after he finally swallows his bite of food. “Thank you for doing that.”

“I had to, Mo. I couldn’t let you take the fall for all that. Sure, the booze was your dumb friend’s idea but the weed, the molly, that was all my fault. I put you in a bad fucking spot.” Zeke’s gaze drops again and he drums his fingers on the tabletop. “Soulmates shouldn’t do that.” 

Mo’s heart stops in his chest. “What?” 

Zeke slowly, hesitantly looks up. He chews his bottom lip before speaking. “Soulmates shouldn’t do that. I should’ve known better.” 

“You…” Again, like it always does, Mo’s hand rises and he covers his chest where Zeke’s name still sits on his skin. The last six months, Mo’s avoided looking at himself shirtless to avoid the memory of Zeke. He was pretty sure he’d never see Zeke again, and it hurt like a fucking bullet wound every time he thought about him. “What?” Mo asks again, voice shaking.

“I’m so fucking sorry, Mo,” Zeke says yet again, and Mo’s getting sick of hearing it but he doesn’t ever want to go six months without hearing Zeke again. “I should’ve said something, but I was so fucking scared. I was gonna text you a pic on your sixteenth birthday, but then I started thinking, what if I was yours but you weren’t mine? I wouldn’t have been able to look you in the eye, dude.

“And then you wouldn’t tell me the name you had, and I figured it must not be me, then. Or if it was, you didn’t want it to be. And I couldn’t really blame you. You never said if you were queer or whatever, and it’s not like I’m some fucking role model boyfriend or anything.”

“I always looked up to you,” Mo says. 

Zeke’s cheeks turn pink and he ducks his head again. “I know,” he says softly, “but that’s different than wanting to date me.”

“Not really.” Mo laughs and shakes his head. “I thought you never told me because you had someone else’s name.”

Zeke gulps audibly then lifts a shaking hand to his inner right bicep. “It’s kinda small,” he says, “easy to miss if you aren’t looking for it. Not like I prance around shirtless a lot, anyway.” 

Mo’s mouth is dry and his head is spinning. “I…”

“I should’ve told you that night of the party but I got scared then, too. I was so fucking terrified of losing you.” Zeke shakes his head again. “I was stupid, what else is new? You told me I was your soulmate and I chickened out of telling you about my mark. The only thing I could think to do to make it better was turn myself in.” 

Mo doesn’t know what to say. 

“I get if you don’t wanna see me again,” Zeke says. 

“Are you an idiot?” Mo retorts. “You’re my fucking _soulmate_ , Zeke, of course I wanna see you again.”

Zeke smiles again, still faint and still gentle. “Awesome.” 

“I need to tell my parents,” Mo says. “I can’t just...just bring you back into my life without some kind of warning.”

“Totally, yeah. And, y’know, just cuz we’re soulmates doesn’t mean I expect anything.” Zeke starts to twiddle his thumbs again. “Just bein’ around you again would be enough.”

“We’ll figure it out. I’ll talk to my parents tonight and we’ll go from there.” Mo reaches for his burger again and shoots Zeke a grin of his own, wider, brighter. 

Later, after they’ve exchanged phone numbers (Mo had deleted Zeke’s number not long into his suspension) and when Zeke walks him to his car, Mo finally does something he’s been dying to do for almost four years. He goes up on his toes to reach, and presses a soft kiss to the corner of Zeke’s mouth. Zeke inhales sharply and one of his hands finds Mo’s hip and he turns his head at the last moment, just as Mo pulls away. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” Mo says. His heart feels like it’s going a mile a minute, but he also kind of feels like he could fly, like he’s invincible. He tilts his head back to smile at Zeke and doesn’t protest when the other man leans down for another kiss, a proper one. 

Zeke’s hands come up to cup his cheeks and he kisses Mo soundly. No tongue, but it’s warm and lingering, chapped lips on chapped lips, and Mo’s toes curl in his shoes. When the kiss breaks, he realizes he’s fisted his hands in Zeke’s shirt. 

“Fuck, Mo, I’ve been dreaming about that for fucking _years_.” Zeke presses his forehead to Mo’s and takes in a long, shuddering breath. “Text me, okay? I promise I’m not gonna fuck things up this time.”

Mo nods. “I will, I know. I gotta go, but I’ll text you.” He steals another chaste kiss, barely a kiss at all because neither of them can stop smiling. “I’ll text you,” he says again.

“Kay.” Zeke finally steps back and, reluctantly, Mo turns to get into his car. 

His hands are shaking as he sticks the key in the ignition and reaches for his phone to let his parents know he’s on his way. He glances in the rearview mirror in time to see Zeke give him a little wave. He waves back before finally pulling away. 

He knows it won’t be easy—the age difference, all the bullshit with the drugs, the drama with Kate and all the bad blood between Zeke and his dad. Mo knows it’s probably going to suck, sometimes, especially convincing his parents to let this happen at all. But he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter how hard it’ll be. 

As he pulls into his driveway, his phone buzzes with a text from Zeke. A picture message, clearly taken inside the Salty Dog’s men’s restroom. Zeke’s shirtless in the pic, with his arm raised and the camera focused on Mo’s name, scrawled on the inside of his bicep. It’s Mo’s handwriting, clumsy but clear. _Monroe Harris_ , on Zeke’s skin plain as day.

Mo casts a quick glance around but no one is nearby, so he pulls up his phone camera and lifts his shirt. He snaps a quick shot of his own soulmark and sends it back to Zeke. He drops his shirt again and watches the three dots appear on the screen. 

The response is quick:  _lol my handwriting sucks._

_ I like it, _ Mo replies. 

_ Me too _ , is Zeke’s next message, then,  _way better than tongue daddy._

Mo laughs. From the corner of his eye, he watches the front door open and his dad stand in the doorway. He gives his dad a wave, then reaches for his phone once more.

_ Way better than tongue daddy,  _ he agrees.  _Gotta go, I’ll text you later._

_ k. love you momo. _

Mo’s heart skips a beat but he doesn’t hesitate to reply, _love you too._ He pockets his phone and clambers out of the car. “Hey dad,” he hollers.

“You're late,” his dad says playfully. He ruffles Mo’s hair when he gets close enough, loops an arm over his shoulders for a half-hug.

Mo grins. “Yeah,” he replies, “I ran into an old friend.” 


End file.
